The Three Hour Fairy Tale
by kellyDFTBA
Summary: John has three hours to save Sherlock. Sherlock is kidnapped by Moriarty. All John has is the few non-helpful clues that Moriarty is giving him.
1. Chapter 1

John checked the clock. It was 14:30. It had been 12:30 when the consulting detective had left to get milk. John had been making tea, they ran out of milk, had an argument on who should get it, and Sherlock had been sent out when John won the argument, claiming that Sherlock had used the last bit to soak a shrunken head.

An 'experiment', he had called it. In the end, all he got was a shrunken head covered in milk skin from the head on the floor, and milk on every surface. Mrs. Hudson wasn't too happy with the mess it made, Sherlock wasn't too happy that he had ruined a head, and John wasn't too happy that he had used up so much milk.

It shouldn't have taken Sherlock this long to pick up another jug of milk, though. He was just going to the shop on the corner. If he had needed his wallet, he would've just come home. Maybe Sherlock had been stopped by Lestrade and was told about a new case, and he just took off before telling John. Maybe he had gone off to sulk. Whatever it was, John wanted to know.

*Sent by John Watson at 14:33* You okay?

*Sent by John Watson at 14:45* Sherlock?

*Sent by John Watson at 14:51* Just tell me where you are. It won't take long to text me.

*Sent by John Watson at 15:00* Come home, idiot. Are you really that mad?

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 15:03* You must like these games. A dog looking for his owner. A game of hide and seek.

*Sent by John Watson at 15:05* ?

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 15:07* It's almost bedtime, love. Come inside for a story. The playing's over. Daddy's had enough now!

John's heartbeat sped up and his breath grew uneven, realizing who he was texting.

*Sent by John Watson at 15:10* Where the fuck is he?

*Sent by John Watson at 15:22* Moriarty, tell me where Sherlock is.

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 15:29* How cute! The pet misses his owner! So sick it makes me ill.

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 15:30* The girl with the golden hair is the worst of all. Hair dropped from a tower, facing a fall.

*Sent by John Watson at 15:42* What?

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 15:43* You have three hours.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>_Awkward short first chapter whoops. It will get longer and better, though. So. Hello!_

_I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any of the characters associated with him. I also do not own London. _


	2. Chapter 2

John lept from his chair, charging out the door, not bothering to get his coat. He hailed a cab and got in. "Tower of London," he said, and the cab took off. Tower of London made the most sense. It was a tower, and Moriarty's riddle had indicated that something happened outside of a tower. It had to be Tower of London. He studied his texts from Moriarty, watching the clock as more and more minutes ticked by. Two hours and fifty four minutes left. Two hours and fifty three… Fifty two…

The cab pulled up, John tossed a bit of money over the seat, and he burst out into the afternoon street. He went through the tourist gate and snuck around the back, examining the base of every tower. Finally, at the base of one, he saw something.

At first it was just a peck of red grass, but the closer he got, he discovered more and more red grass. Blood. Draped lazily at one side of the grass was a coat – a brown woman's trench coat. Next to that was a small child. The face of the child had been torn off. There was a huge, bloody hole where it's heart should have been. Despite the mess, her golden hair was still neatly in place. John closed his eyes and inched forward, snatching the coat up. John checked his watch – two hours and thirty five minutes left now. He tore apart the pockets of the coat, finally finding a sheet of paper. On the back, it read, 'Great job, the prince came for his Rapunzel. I wonder how long it took you. Tried to make it easy – don't want something too hard on your mind. It's fun to watch you dance a few times. I hope you like fairy tales – you're in for a few grimm tales. Do you like the Rapunzel reference? I do. In the end, however, the prince was blind. Fits your part so well! The blind, clueless man saving the woman! You know, why don't we mix things up? Fairy tales are so dull. Haven't we been over the fairy tale thing already? Maybe I'll find something new next. Something interesting. I suppose you want your owner, don't you? One more page to this story. Go to the root of this story, and meet my art.'

John crumpled the note. Damn him. Damn Moriarty for taking Sherlock. Damn clues not making any sense. Damn Sherlock for losing the battle with Moriarty. Damn himself for not being as fast as Sherlock. Damn everything.

Rapunzel… That was Irish, right? Scottish? John checked the time. Two hours and twenty eight minutes. Rapunzel is a story from the Brothers Grimm, and they were German. German roots in London… John took off to hail a cab, his mind racing. A German restaurant? Yes! He got in a cab, feeling proud of himself for coming up with that.

"Take me to the nearest German restaurant," John said, and the cab driver nodded. Six minutes later, with two hours and eighteen minutes left, John arrived at a restaurant called Katzenjammers. He paid for the ride and hopped out, looking at his surroundings. In front of the restaurant, a woman was sprawled on the ground. She was bloody, her arms twisted in unnatural positions, and she was coatless. In her hand was a human heart. Crime scene tape surrounded her, and John peered as close as he could at you, looking around the police. His eyes went to her name tag, a work name tag, where it read Lidia Gothel. John tensed, seeing the connection. Dame Gothel was Rapunzel's mother.

*Sent by John Watson at 16:25* Lidia Gothel. Katzenjammers. Child's heart.

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 16:27* Very good! I have a treat for you in return, pet.

*Sent by John Watson at 16:28* How do I get it?

A few minutes passed, and then John was sent a link. He opened it, and a video was revealed. He pressed play, and Sherlock was shown. He was laying on the ground, tied up with duct tape over his mouth. John could faintly hear the rush of cars around him.

"Say hello to your lovely prince, Sherlock," Moriarty said. Sherlock looked drowsily up at the camera, letting out a few grunts before closing his eyes. The camera turned, and Moriarty was shown. "Sorry 'bout that, John. He's a bit drugged and tied up right now. I'm sure you understand. Must feel good to see your owner again. You'll get to him soon enough, hopefully, if you find me before the time is up. You have what, just over two hours left now? Next one won't be as easy. Sorry, dear." The video ended there.

Panic washed over John. Sherlock's life was depending on him. He had known that before, but now I was really depending on him. If he didn't solve anything, Sherlock would be gone. John's happiness would be gone. It was all up to him to save his best friend, and he had to do it quickly. He didn't have days, just a mere two hours and thirteen minutes. Who knows how long Moriarty would drag this out for. There was no way that John would be able to solve it. Sherlock was going to die.

*Sent by John Watson at 16:30* Next clue?

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 16:32* So demanding! I just might not give it to you.

*Sent by John Watson at 16:33* Please.

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 16:35* Much better. Jack and Jill went up some hill, Jack fell down and broke his crown, and then Jill murdered him without a sound.


	3. Chapter 3

John wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He almost wanted to give up. His best friend was missing and drugged and all he was getting were rubbish clues. John was an idiot. Clues like these would've taken Sherlock just a few minutes to solve. Not to say that less than an hour was a bad amount of time to solve a case, but it was when you needed to solve when you had a time period to solve between.

There were dozens of hills in London! How could he know which one Moriarty meant? John sat on the curb, rubbing his eyes as he thought. What did Jack and Jill do? They went for water. Now where would water be? Everywhere. But more specifically, something about a well. There are no wells in London. So what about a… A pub? No, he was just at a German pub. There wouldn't be a pub again.

John pulled out his phone and went to Google, quickly putting in 'Wells hill London'. He was greeted with a health food store in Notting Hill called Well Well Well, but that wouldn't be it. There was also Well Hill, a small village, in Kent, but that would be too far away.

Maybe there was no well. Maybe he had just made up the whole well thing. Hell, Moriarty hadn't even mentioned the word 'water' in his clue. Damn, this brought John back to the beginning. Sherlock would have figured it out by now. Sherlock would probably be disgusted by John.

John had two hours left now. He was stuck. Maybe the hill was relating to Tower Hill. It was the closest hill-related thing he could think of. He would have to try that. Maybe, just maybe, there will be something.

He hailed a cab and got in, and the cab took off. John spent the short time in the cab praying. He prayed that there would be a clue at Tower Hill. He prayed that he would find Sherlock. He prayed that everything would be alright. He prayed that tomorrow, everything would be back to normal and that there would be a jug of milk at home.

The cab dropped him at the corner five minutes later, at 16:51. He looked around, and at the end of the street was an area blocked off with police tape. He couldn't help but beam. As drastic as the situation was going to be, he felt proud. He had actually found something quickly. Surrounding the crime scene was police cars, dozens of policemen, and ambulances. John jogged up to the nearest policeman, peering over his shoulder at the crime scene. In the middle of the taped off area were two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The boy's head was cracked open, a pool of blood around it. There was also a bullet hole in his heart. A matching bullet hole was in the girl's head.

"Doctor John Watson. I'm Sherlock Holmes's colleague. What happened?" John greeted the cop.

"From the looks of it, he fell and they were shot." The cop replied.

"Mind if I take a closer look?" John asked. A few calls were made to Lestrade to guarantee that John was safe, and then John was allowed closer.

He had to think like Sherlock. This should be easy. The girl was left handed, judging by the ink smudges on her hand. The hole in her head was on the left temple. This could mean suicide. He moved over to the boy. He was slightly behind the girl. This could've meant that the girl and boy were walking together when the girl stopped, pushed him, and then shot him. This could've also meant that he fell backwards and the girl was startled and shot him.

No. None of that was the answer. There wasn't a gun near them. If she had shot him and herself, she would still be holding the gun, or at least the gun would've been near her. He picked up her hand and sniffed it. It had the same metally scent most hands had after handling a gun, but this still doesn't explain the lack of gun. He looked up at one of the policemen.

"Was there a gun here?" He asked.

"Not that we're aware of, sir," the man replied.

John checked the time. 17:20. An hour and a twenty minutes left.

John mulled it over. He stared at the two dead teenagers, observing. They had the same size and shaped nose, eyes, mouth, and jaw, along with the same color hair. Siblings, no doubt. The boy looked about one or two years younger than the girl – maybe fourteen years old. His cheek was slightly red and purple and swollen, and her eyes were red and puffy, possibly from crying. That's it!

They had been in a fight. She hadn't meant to do much, just hurt him. She punched him in the face, he fall back and cracked open his skull. As soon as that was done, someone with a gun just so happened to come along. The girl was crying at this point – she had just killed her brother. The person gave her the gun, coaxing her to make sure he was really dead. She made sure. He was shot in the heart by her. The person then pointed out all the bad things the girl had just done. Grief-stricken, she had pulled the trigger on herself. The technical killer took the gun and ran. The killers fingerprints had been on the gun, and he hadn't wanted to have been captured. A silencer had been on the gun, too, making it so 'Jill' had murdered without a sound. That had to be it. If it wasn't, well, he was going to be in some serious shit.

*Sent by John Watson at 17:30* [Picture message sent]

*Sent by John Watson at 17:31* [Picture message sent]

*Sent by John Watson at 17:32* Looks like Jill had a bit of help killing her brother. Very smart of their killer, taking the gun. Fingerprints can say so much these days.

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 17:35* Took you less time than I expected! I'm impressed. No, actually, I'm not.

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 17:36* I would let you talk to your precious Sherlock, but he has sort of blacked out. Shame, isn't it?

*Sent by John Watson at 17:38* Next clue, please?

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 17:40* Trolls and London.


	4. Chapter 4

What.

_What._

His best friend had an hour to live unless John saved him, and _that's _his clue? John gritted his teeth and sat on the curb. His mind was absolutely blank. There was absolutely no way that John would be able to save him. Hopefully everyone would forgive him for killing Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, everyone. As soon as he would show them this clue from Moriarty, surely they would forgive him.

Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they would kick him out of London. Send him somewhere awful like… Like back to Afghanistan. Or maybe they would just toss him in the middle of nowhere, leaving him to fight for himself. John could almost hear them chanting things like 'We hate John'. He clenched his fists and pushed the thoughts away. He needed to find Sherlock. He had 53 minutes left. He needed to concentrate.

Trolls and London. What the actual fuck does that mean? London leads to endless possibilities, and trolls leads to nothing at all. Was there a London-themed lawn ornament John was supposed to find? No, those were gnomes, not trolls. Trolls are associated with Sweden, right? And Norway? Iceland? Denmark? Maybe there was something involving those four countries that John needed to find. Maybe another pub. No, because then where would London come in?

John was back at square one.

What else does John know about trolls? They are short. They have long, scraggily beards. They are mean. They have warts and big noses and big ears and they don't wear much clothing. They eat humans and goats and vegetables and trash and… everything, really. They lived in tees. No, in the forest. No, under something. Under a… A bridge? A bridge!

Yes! It made sense! London Bridge! Did he mean London Bridge or Tower Bridge, though? Both were often confused. He would have to try Tower Bridge. It was closest. John stood up, beaming. He had 35 minutes to spare. There was no time to hail a cab. He took off running down to road, stopping about three minutes later to catch his breath. He was almost there. Hopefully this would be the end to Moriarty's silly games.

Hopefully.

He took off running again, and two minutes later, he was at the bridge. He ran from one end to the other, panting and wheezing. There was nothing suspicious. It felt like the entire world had been tossed on his shoulders. He had been wrong. He had 23 minutes left. This was it.

*Sent by John Watson at 18:17* I need another clue.

*Sent by Sherlock Holmes at 18:19* Fair enough. Look up.

John Watson, standing at the base of one of the towers, could see a human dangling from a rope attached to a pole, resting over the water.

A human in a long, billowy coat and a scarf.

Sherlock.

John raced to the top of the tower, outrunning the security guards chasing him for not buying a ticket. When he reached the top, he climbed the roof. He dared not to look down. He had seven minutes left. His best friend was dangling off the pole, unconscious. Moriarty sat by pole, grinning at John.

"The pet found his owner! Very good!"

"Let him go," John demanded, surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

"Why would I do that?" Moriarty asked, a confused look on his face.

"You-you said you would let him go if I got here before the three hours were up!"

Moriarty shrugged. "Oh, yeah, I lied. In just a few minutes, though, that won't matter. The bomb, the one I had set for three hours, will go off. This bridge will be gone. So will you. So will Sherlock. Not me, of course. I'm just leaving. Have fun with your owner, love," Moriarty said.

As he turned to slide down the roof, John pulled his gun out of his back pocket, aimed for Moriarty, and shot.


	5. Chapter 5

John watched as Moriarty dropped dead, continued slipping off the roof, and then landed on the concrete below. He was gone. Dead. That had been so easy. His biggest enemy was dead, and it only took one bullet in his head! John grinned. Sick, wasn't it? Pleasure out of another human's death? Not that Moriarty counted as human. Oh, this is fantastic! Sherlock will be so prou-Sherlock.

_Sherlock_.

Four minutes to climb to the end of that pole and save his life. To save both of their lives. John approached the pole and grasped it, slowly moving his hands along it. His feet left the roof, and he was just supported by the pole.

John Watson didn't like a lot of things. He didn't like spiders. He didn't like clowns. He didn't like olives. He didn't like being told the end of the movie before he can finish it. He didn't like snow. And he _especially_ did not like being supported by only a pole, 230 feet above icy water.

In fact, this would actually be quite easy, if it wasn't for the being so high up part. The pole was perfectly horizontal, not sloping the slightest bit. It wasn't wet or slimy, so John had a good grip on it. There wasn't much of a breeze, so nothing was blowing John back. The only issue was the height. He could so easily let go, and he would hit the cement below. And that would be the end of John.

He glanced down. Bad mistake. He froze and his stomach clenched, one of his hands losing its grip from the pole. He swayed for a moment, taking deep breaths of air, and grabbed onto the pole was so high up. So high… More deep breaths. After another second, he continued scooting.

He was so close to Sherlock. Poor Sherlock. He was just dangling by his waist. He would sulk at some point for not being the one to kill Moriarty. He'd probably yell at John. Go on an eating strike. Yell at himself. Not speak for days. Throw a temper tantrum. Not that that was much of a change. That made John smile – the thought of getting things back to how they were. Not much further…

Done! He pulled himself up so he was holding onto the pole with the crick of his elbow. Although it was painful, he was steadier. One of his hands let go of the pole and he dug around in his pocket, finding his pocket knife. He released the blade and starting cutting the thick rope. His shoulder was screaming from supporting John's body weight. He did his best to ignore the fiery pain, squeezing his arm to grasp the pole tighter. He straightened himself as he felt his arm begin to slip. John glanced at his watch. One minute. He kept cutting.

_50… 49…_

There was just a thread of the rope left now. Almost done… John glanced down again, making sure the bottom was clear of any cement and was just water. It was. It was also very high up, and John gripped his knife tighter. In just seconds, he would be falling.

Who knows if they would even make it? This might be the last fall. The last adventure.

_29… 28…_

He looked at his passed-out flat mate. If this didn't work, this would be the last time he ever saw him. If it did work, that would be lovely. He played his last scene with Sherlock, their last fight. The last thing Sherlock had said to John before this was, "Fine, I'll get the goddamn milk." Those would be some pretty crummy last words to say face-to-face to your best friend before you died.

_15… 14…_

And the last thing John said to Sherlock?

_10… 9…_

"Friends protect people," John said, and with a fling of his wrist, the knife had cut through the rope and John and Sherlock were sent soaring through the air to the water below.

_3… 2…_

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for a short chapter. Longer one coming this weekend. And thank you to everyone who readfavorites/story alerted/reviewed. 3 _


	6. Chapter 6

John felt the black, icy water swallow him up. As soon as he hit the water, he heard a loud explosion, and the blast pushed him a little bit away. He sunk, feeling the water pressure become heavier and heavier. He opened his eyes, getting used to the water stinging it. He looked in all directions and eventually found the one that was lightest. The one that was the surface.

He swam to the top quickly, fighting the currants, taking deep, delicious breaths as he broke surface. He looked over at Tower Bridge, which was now a fiery pile of blocks and rubble.

John looked around for Sherlock. He was nowhere to be seen. John's heart raced as he dove back under, kicking off his shoes so less would drag him down. He span and glanced in all directions, hoping to find a glimpse of something.

What if he couldn't find Sherlock? Of course he didn't have Moriarty's timer, but he had the timer of how long one could last without breathing. This isn't what John wanted! It was either save them both or both of them die. Having one live and the other die was simply not an option. Especially having Sherlock die and John live. John couldn't let him do that. Not again.

He went to the surface and grabbed another lungful of air. As he went back down, he saw something. A taller human wearing a scarf and coat. He swam to Sherlock, fighting with all his might to fight the currants. Eventually, he grabbed the poor man's hand, and tried to drag him up. He didn't budge. He studied the man and noticed that his scarf was latched onto a log.

John could have screamed, if he hadn't been underwater. He just wanted his best friend. You've had your fun, universe, just let them live. He wrestled with the scarf for a long moment, his lungs bursting from lack of air. John finally reached around the man's neck and tore the scarf, freeing Sherlock.

He grabbed the still-unconscious man and dragged him to the surface, taking in much more air. The currents were much harder to fight, now that he was swimming for two. He ignored the murky water that kept splashing over his head, and did his best to avoid all boats. He eventually pulled Sherlock to the shore, and John shakily pulled himself onto his hands and knees. He vomited out the foul water that he had swallowed.

By now, the police had gotten to the bridge. A few of the police, including Lestrade, ran to the two wet men.

"John! What the hell-" Lestrade began, stopping when John put up his hand.

"Water. Need water," John rasped, and one of the cops took off to find water. John crawled back over to Sherlock, his mouth still tasting like vomit. He put his ear to Sherlock's heart. It was still beating, barely. Sherlock was making sick, choking noises.

The policeman returned to John and tossed him the water. John took a few gulps, rinsing out the vomit and river water.

"Go and get the medics," John instructed, and Lestrade went to do so. John crouched over Sherlock and tipped the unconscious man's head back, opened his mouth, pinched his nose, and forced air from his own lungs into Sherlock's. He pressed down on Sherlock's stomach a few times, and with another choke, Sherlock spat globs of water out of his mouth. John did it again, and got the same result. By this time, medics were there. They helped John away and put Sherlock on a stretcher, pulling John back when John tried to follow.

"I need to go with him! He's my friend!" John repeated over and over.

"Sir, we have to take you to the hospital, too," someone said. He felt a fleece blanket drape over him. A shock blanket.

"No! I'm fine! I need Sherlock! I didn't spend all this time finding him just to have him taken away again! I need him. He needs me."

"Sir, your head has a large gash in it, you swallowed too much water, and-"

"Please! He's… Please!" John pleaded. John was crying at this point. "He needs me! I fucking need him!"

"If you would just cooper-"

John felt his legs go out from under him, heard a scream, and he blacked out.


End file.
